


The Bird and the Bee

by Melibe



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Baking, Bathing/Washing, Crack, I Don't Even Know, Implied Sexual Content, Metaphysical Sex, Nesting, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Other, Post-Canon, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), but there's nothing graphic, or maybe the compost in the backyard, the most graphic thing in here is probably the vermin-infested mattress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24150244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melibe/pseuds/Melibe
Summary: “Won’t it be a relief to have a venue dedicated solely to our meetings? No more tiresome interactions with the humans that clutter up parks and restaurants.” Gabriel’s tone was coaxing. “Especially now that the Great Plan has been subsumed in the Ineffable Plan, and we’ll be working together for the foreseeable future.”Beelzebub stood in the vestibule of the enormous mansion, considering the skylights, the flawless furniture, the saccharine art prints on the walls. “Ugh. No. I hate it.”Look, it's not easy to build a nest worthy of both the Archangel Gabriel and Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies. But Gabriel is determined to get it right.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 85





	The Bird and the Bee

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Birds of a Feather](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19705429) by [idiopathicsmile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiopathicsmile/pseuds/idiopathicsmile). 



> So in the IB discord we were talking about the perfect beauty of a fic that is "Birds of a Feather" and we got to wondering what ineffable bureaucracy nesting would look like, and before I knew it my head was full of ideas and this absurdity was born. 
> 
> Big big thanks to Euny_Sloane for incomparable beta work, and a huge thank you (plus apology) to idiopathicsmile for the inspiration.

“Isn’t it awful?” Gabriel asks proudly, throwing open the French doors to the backyard. After a moment’s thought, he adds a flourish of his arm.

He’s just led Aziraphale and Crowley from the front door through the immaculate sitting room, with its arched ceiling and pastel color scheme. Aziraphale had stared dumbly at the spotless white throw rugs and the perfectly circular coffee table. Crowley had made some noises that Gabriel assumed were complimentary about the Thomas Kinkade originals on the walls.

Now he’s eager to show them _this_.

Gabriel planted most of the trees last year, so they’ve had a chance to go through a full fruiting cycle. The ground is buried in layers that range from freshly decomposing to powdery green mold, with dark humus underneath.

The stink is impressive, but Gabriel had started to worry that it wasn’t bad enough, so last week he ordered a delivery of manure. It’s still piled in one corner, against the fence. The rotten fruit and the fecal matter have encouraged a population explosion of buzzing, burrowing insects, making Gabriel’s heart swell with hope. He’s pretty sure he’s gotten it right this time.

“Well?” he prods his company.

Aziraphale glances at Crowley, clearly at a loss for words. Then he gives it a try anyway. “It’s, er. It’s not too bad, if you just--”

“It _is_ too bad.” Gabriel smiles widely and a trifle anxiously. “I mean, it is, right? It’s completely vile back here. I wouldn’t want anyone to think otherwise.”

Crowley is theatrically pinching his nose shut, which makes him even less comprehensible than usual. “Dope, do worries dere.”

“You know, I’m terribly sorry, but I believe we’ll have to go soon.” Aziraphale retreats several steps inside. “Was there anything else? Before we leave?”

“Everything else! You haven’t even seen the kitchen yet.” Gabriel shuts the back doors and pushes past Aziraphale and Crowley to lead the way. He’s glad they could make time for this visit, so he can practice showing the place off.

True, he had to phone the bookshop a couple hundred times, and leave dozens of voicemails and text messages on Crowley’s mobile, but they came around eventually.

As he steps into the kitchen, Gabriel hears Aziraphale whisper, “How did he get your mobile phone number, anyway?” and Crowley hisses back, “I have no bloody idea.”

Gabriel smiles. There are advantages to being the patron saint of communication. He waves the couple through the doorway and stands back against the cabinets so they get an unobstructed view of the disaster. “You can see I’ve been working very hard.”

A pyramid of dirty dishes, utensils and cookware obscures the sink. The faucet drips every few seconds into the bowl of a long-handled spoon, which wobbles with each slight addition. The floor and counters are tacky with spills and dusted with powders of every kind: flour, cocoa, curry, cayenne. And the whole room _smells_. Not a nice, sugary baking smell, but the sort of sour burned smell that makes you expect the smoke alarm to go off at any moment.

Aziraphale blinks. “ _You’ve_ been cooking?”

“Oh yes, and baking.” Gabriel waves at the breads and pastries piled haphazardly among mixing bowls and cutting boards.

The hum of the oven draws Aziraphale’s attention. “What have you got in there now?”

“Oh, nothing,” says Gabriel. “It just stays on. Keeps the room unpleasantly hot. And if the smell starts to fade, then I toss in a few bread crumbs and they burn right up.”

Aziraphale gazes in anguish at a croissant balanced on a pile of moldy strawberry tops. “You could tidy up just a smidge,” he suggests. “Make it a bit less--”

“A bit less absolutely disgusting?” Gabriel frowns and wags his finger. “That wouldn’t do, now would it? Nauseating is no less than a Prince of Hell deserves. If you want tidy, though . . .”

He ushers them out of the kitchen, back through the sitting room, and flings open the bathroom door. “Behold!”

Aziraphale might like _tidy_ , but Gabriel prefers _spotless_ , and that’s exactly the word for this bathroom. Gleaming tile and porcelain, a jacuzzi tub so white it glows. The towels, rugs, and washcloths are all pale lavender, and the scent of lilies wafts from the soap.

“Well?” Gabriel claps his hands. “What do you think?”

“I, ah, er. Well.” Aziraphale strokes his waistcoat thoughtfully. “That is to say.”

“I think,” says Crowley, “that Beelzebub is going to murder you.”

\--

“They spied on us for thousands of years.” Crowley sits on the bookshop floor. His long legs are splayed out in a V, bracketing a pile of deconstructed packaging and a tiny two-inch drone. “ _The villainy you teach me, I will execute. But I will better the instruction._ ”

“I’m sure you recall how well that went for Shylock.” Aziraphale’s tone is disdainful as he works on reshelving the memoirs. “And honestly, I haven’t the slightest desire to know what they’re doing. Why are you so keen?”

“Because Gabriel is a wanker, and I can’t wait to see Beelzebub discorporate him.” Crowley glares at his phone as he installs the control software. He plans to never tell Aziraphale about _shut your stupid mouth and die already_. “If we’re lucky, Beelzebub might even bring Hellfire and exterminate him permanently.”

Aziraphale pauses with Joan Didion in one hand and Haruki Murakami in the other. He doesn’t say anything, but he looks a bit ill, and Crowley softens. “Angel, you don’t have to watch. How about I preview the footage, and if there’s anything too traumatic I won’t show it to you?”

“All right,” says Aziraphale, “but don’t come fussing at me if you’re the one who gets traumatized.”

“Impossible.” Crowley taps in a few commands, and the drone zips out the window.

\--

The first time, Beelzebub had no idea what Gabriel was up to.

“Won’t it be a relief to have a venue dedicated solely to our meetings? No more tiresome interactions with the humans that clutter up parks and restaurants.” Gabriel’s tone was coaxing. “Especially now that the Great Plan has been subsumed in the Ineffable Plan, and we’ll be working together for the foreseeable future.”

Beelzebub stood in the vestibule of the enormous mansion, considering the skylights, the flawless furniture, the saccharine art prints on the walls. “Ugh. No. I hate it.”

Then they stalked around, so they could hate it more effectively. They found a weird plastic parasite attached to one wall, emitting blue light. “Nezzt?”

“Yes! Exactly!”

Beelzebub couldn’t understand why Gabriel was _beaming_. They had simply read aloud the four-letter word printed neatly on the parasite’s shell. And after all the memos they’d sent back and forth, surely he’d known that they were _literate_. “I really, really hate it.”

They spat on the marble floor, and left.

The next time, Beelzebub figured out what was going on. Gabriel had dug into a landfill, hollowing out just enough space for a couple of rooms. He’d dragged a stained mattress into one, and arranged a few broken chairs with rusty nails in another.

He led Beelzebub inside, looking just as pleased as he had with the mansion.

Beelzebub liked the stench. They liked the trash. They liked the claustrophobic heat. They lay down on the mattress to better appreciate all the vermin inside it. The scuttling, chewing noises were very soothing, and they almost fell asleep, but something nagged at them. 

They opened their eyes to look at Gabriel. His smile refused to fade, even as he stooped to avoid brushing the ceiling, with all its dangerous and disgusting debris. Beelzebub’s mind unspooled his comment about _the foreseeable future_.

Grinding their teeth in rage that was directed half at Gabriel and half at their own stupid self, Beelzebub jumped up and jabbed a finger into his chest. “Try. Again.”

Then they licked the wall, and stomped out.

And now, two years later, Gabriel is welcoming them into this new place. It’s a modest house out in the country, without any humans around. The outside is unremarkable. The inside--well.

In the living room, Beelzebub sneers at the art, insults the furniture, and scuffs up the rug. In the kitchen, they have a quick snack--just one cheesecake and four or five tarts--while savoring the sting of the smoky air. Then Gabriel tugs them toward the French doors and throws them open to reveal the backyard.

Beelzebub breathes deeply. They stride into the filth, sinking up to their ankles in rot. Gabriel follows them, not quite hovering. They circle the trees, then stop in front of the manure pile.

“I can spread it out if--” begins Gabriel.

Beelzebub grabs the front of his shirt, swings him around, and shoves him in. Shit splatters everywhere. “Wow, it’s hot in here,” observes Gabriel, with the surprise of someone who has never attended a composting workshop.

“Not as hot as it’s about to be,” says Beelzebub, stripping off their jacket and diving in after him.

Many hours later, after Beelzebub has sullied, stained, defiled and polluted Gabriel’s physical corporation in every way they can think of (with the exception of those activities that will require trips to specialized shops), the two of them lie back to catch their breath.

“Guess you were a bit pent up.” Gabriel’s chest is heaving, but he looks smug.

Beelzebub has just enough energy left to swipe their feculent hand over his stupid face to shut him up. They’ll have to do a better job of wearing him out next time. For now . . . well, there are worse ways to spend the night than naked under the stars in a pile of horse shit, next to the archangel you’ve been quietly coveting since the dawn of time.

“All right. My turn.” Gabriel heaves himself to his feet and scoops Beelzebub into a bridal carry.

Beelzebub plans to be offended, just as soon as they finish enjoying the texture of Gabriel’s bare chest and the play of muscles in his arms and shoulders. “What do you mean?”

“You still haven’t seen the bathroom. Look, it has an outside door! Isn’t that handy?”

 _Smart move for a birdbrain_ , Beelzebub thinks as Gabriel carries them over the threshold. He leaves dirty footprints on the tile as he approaches the tub.

Beelzebub takes one look at the rising steam and locks their arms in a death grip around Gabriel’s neck. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“For Heaven’s sake, you’re acting like it’s holy water.” Gabriel doesn’t try to disengage, he just steps into the bath himself. He rushes to add, “It isn’t, by the way.”

The tub is deep and wide enough that he can sink all the way into it. Beelzebub shrieks, practically climbing onto his head to stay out of the water, nails digging into his scalp.

Gabriel sighs. “I think you’ll like it if you give it a try. Didn’t I try everything you suggested outside?”

“I wasn’t suggesting,” says Beelzebub acidly.

“Oh, well if _that’s_ how you want it.” Gabriel reaches up to wrap his hands around their waist and yanks them into the bath.

The temperature of the water is offensively perfect. Beelzebub yells, kicks a few gallons out onto the floor, gives Gabriel’s arms several deep scratches to make a point, then settles down to sulk. 

A bath, Beelzebub discovers, is a marvelous place for a sulk. They sink down and the water responds by buoying them up, almost like a warm updraft. They shut their eyes and think of gliding through the air, hovering weightless, riding the breeze. How long has it been since they last flew? They don’t remember.

When Beelzebub lifts their head out of the water, they’re assaulted by the cloying smell of lavender, and Gabriel’s equally cloying smile. He brandishes his lathered-up hands. “See, I knew you’d like it. Let me wash your hair.”

Beelzebub recoils. “Will it make me smell like _that_?”

“Ah. Not if . . . you don’t want it to?” The ether ripples with hasty angelic interference, and the flowery stink fades.

“Acceptable,” sniffs Beelzebub, sliding into position in front of Gabriel. “You may begin.”

After using three kinds of soap, two loofahs (Gabriel discarded the first when it got to the point of redistributing grime, rather than removing it) and a washcloth on both of their corporations, Gabriel snaps his fingers to refill the tub with fresh hot water.

“Waste of a blessed miracle,” Beelzebub grumbles, although they make no move to shift from where they are half-held, half-floating in Gabriel’s arms. “We’re both horrifyingly clean. No need for this torture to go on.”

Gabriel lifts their chin and kisses them. “I thought we might try something here, while we’re feeling relaxed.”

Beelzebub squints at him. “You want to fuck in the bath?”

“Not exactly fuck,” he says with a smile.

“I’d love to know what _that_ means,” they snort.

“Okay.” Gabriel touches his forehead to theirs, and they hear a rumble in his chest, like he’s about to clear his throat. But the sound goes deeper, higher, and clears away the entire material plane. Water, air, skin, all fade to nothing. For the first time they stand face to face with Gabriel, though they have no face and nothing to stand on.

Beelzebub crackles and burns with the vast immutable fire of their essence, while Gabriel flares around them, an eternal lightning storm. His love strikes like a blade, searing and merciless, cauterizing as it cuts. Beelzebub’s love rages in response, blistering in its heat, laying waste to lesser pleasures. They stoke each other’s flames, their edges blurring together, forming a single, impossible, holy inferno.

Beelzebub jerks back into their body, into the bath, gasping for air. They’re surprised to find that all the water hasn’t evaporated. Everything is the same as before, except their fingers are digging bruises into Gabriel’s broad shoulders and a line of blood is trickling down his upper lip.

“I’ve never done that with a demon before,” he croaks.

“I should fucking hope not.” Beelzebub’s throat feels like they’ve been screaming for hours.

“Let’s go to bed,” says Gabriel. His voice is shaking, but his legs are steady as he climbs out of the tub with Beelzebub in his arms again. 

They wrap their legs around his waist and rest their head on his shoulder. They’ve decided that if Gabriel wants to carry them everywhere like the prince they genuinely are, that’s nothing to complain about.

The bedroom ceiling is low, but not so low that Gabriel can’t stand up straight. The room is clean but cluttered, full of pillows and blankets, candles and lamps, packaged snacks and magazines--as if Gabriel bought one of everything in the “home furnishings” department. Beelzebub imagines lazy mornings sorting through the mess together, deciding what to keep and what to incinerate.

Gabriel drops onto the bed with Beelzebub, yawning as he pulls a sky-blue sheet over them both. _Fucking hell,_ thinks Beelzebub, _he yawns even bigger than he smiles. Monster._

“Just to be clear,” they mumble, eyes already closing, “this place, this stupid ridiculous nest you’ve built, izz mine now.”

“That was rather the--”

“Not ourzz. _Mine._ If you’re good, I’ll let you stay.”

They feel him kiss their temple, his lips warm and dry. “Oh, I know how to be good.”

Beelzebub buzzes off to sleep in Gabriel’s arms, and hours pass without a single nightmare. That’s a Satan-blessed novelty.

Eventually, a shifting weight on the mattress wakes Beelzebub. They blink their eyes open to see Gabriel on the opposite edge of the bed, staring into his cupped hands.

“Whazzit?” they mumble.

“I caught something buzzing at the window. At first I thought it was one of your flies.”

That makes Beelzebub curious enough to crawl over. The object Gabriel is holding does look fairly insectoid. It has four wings, and something that might be a single compound eye.

Beelzebub taps its black and white shell. It doesn’t quite feel like an insect. “Could it be something of yours?” they ask Gabriel. “You know. Some kind of communication device?”

“Beelzebub.” Gabriel speaks their name on a reverent breath. When he turns to look at them, his eyes are wide with awe. “I think I know what this is. _Who_ this is.”

“What are you . . .” Their voice trails off as Gabriel sets the small winged entity tenderly in the palm of their hand, then cups his own much larger hand around both.

Beelzebub’s stomach drops right through the floor and probably through the first few circles of Hell. Their free hand clutches at Gabriel’s shoulder. “It’s not possible. Izz it?”

“It reflects both our aspects,” he points out. “And, well. You know what we did last night.”

\--

Crowley is sleeping soundly when Aziraphale glances up from his book and notices morning light creeping in around the curtains. The angel checks the time, feeling like he could use a nibble, and discovers it’s late enough to visit the earliest-opening bakery in the neighborhood.

When he returns with pastries and hot drinks, he expects to find Crowley still asleep--after all, Aziraphale had constructed a _very_ comfortable nest for that precise purpose. Instead, he finds Crowley lying flat on the floor, his whole body trembling.

“Crowley!” cries Aziraphale. He’s so worried he sets the paper bags and coffee cups _on top of a book_ before kneeling beside the demon. “Whatever is the matter? Is it Hell? Did Hastur call? Did the money tree lose another leaf?”

After a few more tremors, Crowley gasps out an answer. “They found it. Gabriel and Beelzebub found the drone.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale lets himself relax. Crowley’s state seems like an overreaction to what Aziraphale sees as the inevitable failure of his reconnaissance, but the demon has always been prone to drama. “I suppose they destroyed it?”

“Oh, no. No.” Crowley wheezes, finally lifting his head so Aziraphale can see the hysterical grin splitting his face.

“Angel, they _adopted_ it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I believe with all my heart that a camera drone raised by an archangel and a prince of hell will, in fact, grow up to be their child. There's just no other option.


End file.
